Archive of Our Own

Arlecchino is no stranger to death.

Throughout her life, it has been more faithful, more reliable, more predictable than any Archon. Regardless of one’s motives, of hidden agendas and long standing grudges, death remains unbiased, unfeeling, unchanging. As it comes for her enemies and allies alike, one day, it will come for her.

That is a fact that Arlecchino has long come to accept. Harbingers are not immortal - hell, even the gods themselves can die. When her time comes, Arlecchino will accept it with grace and exit stage right, hoping that her children will be strong enough to live on without her.

What she does not expect, however, is whatever the hell is going on now.

She is standing atop a sea of clouds, the endless blue sky stretching above her head and beneath her feet. A gentle breeze toys with her now short hair, bringing with it the familiar scent of home.

When she reaches out one hand for the clouds, she realizes that her scars have receded, charred skin barely extending past her knuckles. Looking down, she realizes that her appearance itself has changed - she looks about sixteen again, though she’s dressed in the fitted silver-black suit that she obtained after becoming a Harbinger. The weight of her Vision on the back of her neck is reassuring, though she has no idea if it will work now that she’s dead.

Just where is she? The clouds stretch out endlessly in all directions, yet there is not another soul in sight.

Is this purgatory, a beautiful prison in which her tainted soul will face solitary confinement? Is this the punishment that awaits her, the descendant of sinners who proceeded to commit even more sins?

Hesitantly, Arlecchino begins to walk. The water beneath her ripples with every step, but holds firm. The sky remains a beautiful summer blue, the clouds stay calm and white, and the sea beneath her feet remains smooth and solid.

She has no idea how long she spends walking. Ten minutes, ten days, ten decades - she has lost all sense of time here. Her body feels no exhaustion, no hunger, no pain. In fact, even the ever-present burn of her blood is gone, leaving Arlecchino completely without pain for the first time in her… existence?

Suddenly, a gentle fog begins to roll over the water. Arlecchino tenses, hesitant, but something seems to be calling her forward, pulling her by an invisible string buried deep into her chest.

She attempts to call for her weapon. Unsurprisingly, it does not answer. Her Vision, however, still seems to work, a dark red fire dancing at her fingertips as she presses into the fog.

It thickens gradually, until she is barely able to see where she is going. Still, the string in her chest tugs at her, guiding her through the suffocating mist.

Just as she is about to stop, to consider turning back, she hears a familiar voice.

“Perrie?”

The string tugs once, hard. Arlecchino nearly drops to her knees, her nonexistent heart leaping to her throat.

“C-Clervie?”

“Peruere? Is that you?”

The texture of the ground beneath her changes. It gives a little with every step, kind of like… sand?

“Yes,” she calls back, desperate. “Where… where are you?”

“I’m coming,” Clervie responds immediately, her voice giddy with excitement. “I didn’t expect you to get here so soon. You didn’t do anything stupid, did you?”

All of a sudden, the fog clears.

Arlecchino is standing on a familiar stretch of golden sand, the hills of Fontaine rising in the distance. She hears the sound of boots crunching against the sand, sees a flash of orange-red, and then Clervie’s arms are warm against her neck, her body solid and real against Arlecchino’s own.

Clervie looks sixteen again, but without the shadows that haunted her eyes as her hope slipped between her trembling fingers. She is happy, beautiful, whole, and the sight robs Arlecchino of the ability to speak, to think, to breathe.

Pulling back from the hug, Clervie stares right into Arlecchino’s eyes. She’s always been the only one who can get away with that, strangely immune to the hypnotic pull of those cursed red crosses.

“You’re here,” she says, excited yet sad at the same time. “I’m so happy to see you again, but…”

“It means that I’m dead?” Arlecchino supplies helpfully.

Clervie nods.

“I didn’t want you to come this soon.”

“Soon?” She asks, incredulous. “It’s been more than twenty years.”

“I may not be well-traveled, but I’m pretty sure your average person lives more than 40 years.”

“I’m a Fatui agent, Clervie. I’m pretty sure I lived past our average lifespan when I hit 21.”

Clervie makes a heartbreaking little whine in the back of her throat, her beautiful eyes dimming. “I know, but… I wanted more for you.”

“I don’t need more,” Arlecchino reassures, one hand tracing lazy circles between Clervie’s shoulder blades. “It might not have been the longest, but I think I’ve had a good run.”

She leans closer, breathes in the familiar scent of Clervie’s skin, of flowers in the spring, of dappled sunlight through the trees and all that is beautiful in the world.

“And now that I’m here, I get to see you again.”

Clervie blushes. The color suits her, gentle and sweet just like she is.

“I am really happy to see you again, Peruere.”

There are no words that can truly express the depth of her relief, her longing, her gratitude, at being able to see Clervie again. So all she can do is hope that the strength of her emotion will show through in the way her voice trembles, in the way her hands tighten around Clervie’s waist and her heartbeat pounds against her chest.

“So am I.”

Judging by the way she smiles, Clervie does indeed understand. She always has, after all, because she knows Peruere better than Peruere knows herself. Arlecchino is glad that the passing years have not changed that.

“You look very good in that suit. Maybe I should’ve tried to dress up…”

Clervie is in a flowing white dress, belted around the waist. The hem cuts off just above her knees, rippling gently in the breeze. It is simple, yes, but it suits Clervie perfectly, pure and innocent just like her soul.

“You look beautiful,” Arlecchino tells her, as honest and upfront as she was when she was sixteen. “You always do.”

Clervie blushes almost scarlet, a vivid red that sneaks its way down her neck.

“Anyway,” she clears her throat and does a sharp about-face, looking out into the distance. “Welcome to… the afterlife, I suppose? Honestly, even though I’ve been here so long, I have no idea if this place has a formal name.”

Arlecchino’s heart lurches. “Have you been alone all this time?”

Clervie grins, wide and genuine. “I haven’t! Plenty of people have come by! Most of them don’t stay, but they’ve told me all sorts of stories!”

She lets out a sigh of relief. It seems that whatever place this may be, it isn’t designed to isolate.

“They don’t stay long?”

“Yeah. Most of them have places to be, so they leave right away. Others, like me, stay to wait for someone. But eventually, we’ve all got to go.”

Arlecchino’s heart sinks.

“Please don’t talk about leaving when I’ve only just met you again.”

“Oh, darling,” Clervie gently cups her face, drawing so close that their noses are almost touching.

Before she can continue speaking, someone clears their throat behind them.

“There is no need to worry. Clervie is right that we must inevitably go, but it seems we can stay for as long as we like until we’re ready to leave.”

Arlecchino turns immediately, putting her body between Clervie and the stranger as flames leap to her fingertips. The lack of a weapon concerns her, but at the very least, her elemental powers still remain.

A man and a woman stand on the edge of the beach where sand turns to grass. The man is a stranger, tall and muscular, but with a smile on his face that would have put anyone but Arlecchino at ease. The woman on his arm, however…

She is different. Softer, more woman than flame. But it is unmistakably her, those blue-gray eyes warmer than Arlecchino has ever seen them being.

“Signora,” she greets through gritted teeth.

“Knave,” Signora returns the greeting. She’s smiling, but it doesn’t feel as painted as always. “I see that your time has finally come to pass.”

“It has.”

Clervie looks between them, adorably confused. “Do the two of you know each other?”

Peruere refuses to take her eyes off the other woman as she replies, “She was a Harbinger, too.”

“My, my, are you, the Fourth of the Fatui Harbingers, seeing me, the Eighth, as a threat?” Signora sounds teasing instead of goading, and Arlecchino has no idea how to take that.

“You were the Fourth?” Clervie practically shoves her head into Arlecchino’s field of vision, her eyes sparkling like stars in the night sky. “I didn’t know you got that strong, Perrie!”

“Oh, so this is the Perrie I’ve heard so much about!”

The look on Signora’s face is best described as shit-eating, an almost playful expression that doesn’t sit well with Arlecchino’s memory of her. If she’s this lighthearted, if she’s this relaxed, the man by her side must be…

“I’m relieved that you have been reunited with your lover at last.”

Her words are genuine, and the emotion behind them seems to surprise Signora. The man beside her smiles, giving her arm a squeeze.

“My name is Rostam,” he says. “We have heard many stories about you from young Clervie here, Miss…?”

She hesitates.

What name should she introduce herself by here, now, in this strange afterlife? Is she still the Tsaritsa’s broken, mad, cursed Knave, soaked in blood and fire? Where does the line between Arlecchino and Peruere begin, does it even exist?

Signora makes a suspiciously gentle sound, almost as if she cares.

“We are free to use whatever name we see fit here,” she says, offering Arlecchino a hand. “My name is Rosalyne. What is yours?”

Rosalyne. She has heard of the Crimson Witch’s true name, the last reminder of the woman she used to be before fire coursed through her veins. She’s never expected to use it, though.

Hesitantly, she extinguishes the flames at her fingertips.

“Nice to meet you, Rosalyne.”

The name sounds strange on her tongue, sounds much more human than La Signora, the Fair Lady. Arlecchino supposes that is why she chose it, to return to her mortal roots at the end of her life.

“My name is Peruere.”

Signora, no, Rosalyne, smiles. It is gentle and human in a way that makes Peruere’s heart ache.

“It is a pleasure to meet you at last,” Rostam says. “After all those stories, it feels great to put a face to the name.”

Peruere turns to look at Clervie, who is grinning from ear to ear, relaxed and beautiful and free.

“They’ve stayed the longest,” Clervie explains. “I met Mister Rostam when I first got here, and we started trading stories about who we were waiting for.”

“Nothing too embarrassing, I hope.”

“Oh no, just things like how you had held a funeral for your spider and left some cake at its grave,” Rosalyne says casually. “Very cute.”

Unsurprisingly, Clervie has her back. Smiling sweetly, she says, “And I heard really funny stories, like how Miss Rosalyne tried to learn a sword trick to impress Mister Rostam, but ended up dislocating a shoulder instead.”

“Don’t forget the black eye,” Rostam adds cheekily, the grin looking out of place on his tall, muscular frame.

Rosalyne blushes. It is a strange look on her, the brush of color bringing some life to her pale cheeks. How ironic, that she looks the most alive after death.

“Rostam!” Rosalyne slaps his arm, though the gesture is clearly affectionate.

There is laughter, light and natural. Peruere never imagined she would stand by a Harbinger’s side like this, carefree and relaxed, neither of them trying to threaten the other. There is no mind game being played, no fires within fires to be studied and predicted, no sword hovering just out of sight, waiting for the right opportunity to stab each other in the back.

“Well, as lovely as this meeting has been, I’m sure the two of you have been looking forward to your reunion,” Rostam cheerfully loops an arm around Rosalyne’s shoulders. “Let’s give the young lovebirds some privacy, shall we?”

Peruere flushes red, the heat spreading from the tips of her ears to the soles of her feet. Love - she’s never allowed herself to put a word to her feelings for Clervie before, aside from crippling grief. Having it spelled out so clearly for her makes her feel like a flustered schoolgirl, and judging by how red Clervie has become, she feels the same way.

Rosalyne laughs. “Of course, of course.”

She turns to Peruere, her eyes full of kindness and understanding as she adds, “Take your time, my dear. I know that you may not believe it, but even you deserve kindness, and the world will not take this away from you. Not here, not now.”

It does not surprise her that Rosalyne knows how she feels. After all, they were both women who had someone they loved taken from them, who turned the world to fire and ash in the aftermath. Consumed by grief, they had betrayed their humanity and stained their hands in countless sins.

How could they, twisted and inhuman as they are, be deserving of a soft ending?

How many people have cursed Arlecchino as the life bled from their eyes, swearing that there was a special place in hell reserved just for her? How many people have wished endless suffering upon her soul, praying for fire and brimstone to consume her for all eternity?

Yet here she is, standing on a replica of her favorite shoreline, hand in hand with the person she had burned the world down for.

It feels too good to be true, but if Signora, if Rosalyne, is telling her that this is something she can have…

She will make an attempt to accept it.

“Thank you.”

She has her suspicions, but she is willing to set Arlecchino aside and let Peruere take the lead. She still has her Vision, anyway, so if this turns out to be some kind of fever dream she has to fight her way out of, if she isn’t as dead as she believes she is, she’s pretty confident in her chances.

But if this is the world offering her one concession, one temporary truce, one gift after all it has taken, she would be a fool not to take it.

It is painfully nostalgic, walking along the beach with Clervie, picking up stranded lumitoile and tossing them back into the waves. Sand crunches beneath their heels, and for an awkward moment, it is the only sound between them.

It’s not like Peruere has nothing to say. In fact, she has too much, her words tripping over each other in an attempt to escape that they’ve become a muddled ball trapped in the base of her throat.

Clervie takes her hand, intertwining their fingers with a straightforward courage that she did not have in life. Peruere wonders what this place has taught her, if her soul has grown in the years she has spent waiting, if she’s managed to experience the world after her death.

“There’s so much I want to say that I can’t say anything,” Clervie laughs at last, breaking the awkwardness that loomed between them.

Peruere smiles back. “Me too.”

“I want to know everything I’ve missed. The things you’ve thought and felt and done in the last twenty years, broken down day by day…”

“My life wasn’t that interesting,” this time, she cannot help but laugh. “I don’t think you want to hear about endless meetings and pointless grandstanding between people powerful enough to kill gods, but childish enough to throw tantrums.”

“Actually,” Clervie hums, brows furrowing, “that sounds really interesting.”

“It does?”

“Perrie, anyone with the power to kill god would be interesting. Mother was strong, but I don’t think she was that strong.”

Huh. Perhaps becoming a Harbinger as young as she did has warped her perception of the world…

“No, she wasn’t. A Harbinger shouldn’t have been taken down by a child.”

Clervie tilts her head, confused. Belatedly, Peruere remembers that she doesn’t actually know who ended her mother’s life, isn’t aware of the aftermath of her death and the flames of Peruere’s rage. She must know that Crucabena is dead - Peruere inherited her title, after all - but she probably doesn’t know much else.

She is, however, a very smart person, and it doesn’t take her long to put two and two together.

“You killed her.”

Peruere allows her hand to go slack, just in case Clervie wants to pull away, in anger or disgust she isn’t sure.

“I did.”

Clervie tightens her grip instead.

“When?”

“One year after I killed you.”

Clervie sucks in a breath, surprised.

“I knew she was dead, but I didn’t know you killed her that soon.”

Peruere smiles weakly.

“It felt like an eternity to me.”

“Did you get badly hurt?”

The question surprises her.

“… I didn’t.”

A little blood, a couple broken ribs, burns caused by her own lack of control - all in all, she had walked away from that fight in a much better shape than she had anticipated.

Clervie stops. She follows suit, nervously awaiting the other girl’s reaction.

“You idiot.”

Warm arms are around her neck again, gentle hands roaming her body in search of wounds that have long healed.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispers, her breath ticklish against Peruere’s neck.

“What else could I have done?” Peruere hugs her back, burying her face in the softness of Clervie’s hair. “Did you expect me to just… go on as usual after I’d killed you?”

“Perrie…”

“I won. I won, but it didn’t mean a thing.”

She remembers the unrelenting itch that clawed beneath her skin, the tingling restlessness that made her limbs feel numb, the spikes of energy that tore up her back and made her entire body jolt.

“It felt like someone had peeled my skin off and then wrapped it back on wrong. Everything seemed to make me more restless, and I just… didn’t know why.”

“Did you feel better after?”

She can’t stop herself from smiling, feral and bloodthirsty. Even now, she remembers how overjoyed she felt at that moment, Crucabena’s broken body collapsed at her feet. Her blood was burning, her body was aching, and yet her soul was singing, soaring above the clouds for what felt like the first time in a long time.

“I did.”

Her smile drops.

“But it didn’t last.”

She remembers digging Crucabena a grave, remembers laughing sarcastically at the makeshift gravestone she erected. She remembers turning herself in, Crucabena’s masterless Vision in one hand and her Delusion in the other, remembers the shock and fear and horror written all over the other children’s faces. She remembers the soldiers sent to escort her, their stiff terror as they escorted her in groups no smaller than five, whispering about the child that killed a Harbinger.

She remembers the long, lonely journey to Snezhnaya, the myriad of new sights she saw through the window. The change in the water, the different colors of the trees and rocks and hills, the new songs of birds she didn’t know the names of. She remembers the beautiful night sky beyond her prison window, the northern lights dancing just like they did in their picture books, breathtaking and beautiful and oh-so-pointless.

Most of all, she remembers missing Clervie like the sharp edge of a knife.

“I just kept wishing you were there with me.”

Clervie is crying now, her expression torn by guilt and regret. “I’m so sorry, Peruere.”

“Don’t be,” gently, she cups Clervie’s face in her hands, trying desperately to wipe those tears away.

“I couldn’t think of anyone else but myself,” Clervie’s voice is painfully small, trembling with her unsteady breaths. “I was just so, so tired, and I… I was selfish. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Perrie…”

Her heart aches. She doesn’t want Clervie to feel guilty, but she also doesn’t want to deny the pain and suffering that she’d put her through. What are the right words to express those feelings, do the right words even exist?

“I don’t want any apologies,” she finally says. “I just… I just want you to know that even though you’ve destroyed me, I’ve never blamed you, not for a second.”

Unfortunately, the words end up being the exact opposite of reassuring. Clervie’s face crumples, powerful sobs shaking through her body as she falls to pieces. Peruere pulls her closer, guiding Clervie’s head into the crook of her neck with one hand, tracing gentle circles into the small of her back with the other.

Internally, Peruere curses her poor choice of words. She’s supposed to be better than this - Arlecchino has dedicated years to perfecting the craft of communication, controlling conversations to the smallest degree in order to benefit herself. Why is she putting her foot in her mouth at such an important moment? Has death reverted her to Peruere in more ways than one, has it removed more than just the scars that ran up her arms?

What can she say to make this situation better? Change the subject? But what can she change it to while Clervie is still sobbing in her arms, tears soaking through the fabric of her jacket?

“I’m sorry,” she says pathetically.

That gets a response out of Clervie.

“Why are you apologizing? I’m the one who hurt you.”

Bemused, Peruere replies, “Because I’m the one who just made you cry…?”

“I’m crying because I don’t like that I’ve hurt you.”

“And I’m apologizing because I don’t like that I’ve made you cry.”

For a moment, they stare at each other, trapped in a stalemate. And then, Clervie laughs, watery and hesitant.

“What are we, twelve?”

Peruere smiles, relieved that the other girl has stopped crying for the moment. She’s never been good with tears, especially not Clervie’s. It seems that, despite everything she’s been through, that much has not changed.

It doesn’t matter if she’s six, a distant child too young to know loneliness; or sixteen, a cursed young Prince awaiting her throne; or twenty-seven, a bloodstained, crazed Knave laying the lives of innocent children at her Archon’s feet. Her weakness is still Clervie, will always be Clervie, throughout the life she has already lost and the life that is yet to come.

“I’ve missed you.”

The admission is raw, vulnerable in a way Arlecchino would never deign to be. But here, she isn’t Arlecchino anymore.

Clervie smiles, wiping the last of the tears from her face. “I’ve missed you too.”

There is so much affection in Clervie’s voice, she could drown in it. She wants to get drunk on it, to fill her lungs with it, to lose herself in it until her sense of self completely dissolves. It isn’t a healthy desire, but Peruere acknowledges the trauma from which it stems, the loss and regret in which it was shaped.

“We have all the time in the world to catch up now, don’t we?”

Clervie hums, the playful tone a stark contrast with her tear-streaked cheeks and swollen eyes. “Mister Rostam has been here five hundred years and counting, so at the very least, we should have that much.”

Five hundred years. Peruere cannot even begin to imagine how long that is. Yet, it still doesn’t feel long enough, like she could spend a hundred times that with Clervie and still want more.

“It’s a good start.”

“Start?” Clervie chuckles, threading gentle fingers through Peruere’s hair. “Such a greedy girl.”

She responds by wrapping one arm securely around Clervie’s waist, dropping the other to her thighs, testing her grip before sweeping her into a bridal carry. Clervie squeals, flailing slightly in panic as she attempts to find her balance, a pretty pink returning to her cheeks.

“P-Perrie!”

“I know just where to start,” Peruere is smiling, marshmallow soft with rounded edges. “Do you still want to see the night sky in Snezhnaya?”

Her face lights up.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come so we could see it together!”

Travel in the afterlife is a strange concept.

The world stretches out before them, mostly accurate to what Peruere remembers. There are no stray clockwork Meka, no patrolling Gardes, opportunistic treasure hoarders or lost travelers. Instead, the landscape rolls on uninhabited, as if they were the only two people left in the world. Their footsteps crunch against the sand, rustle against the grass, yet when they turn around, they have not left even the slightest disturbance behind.

“Not many people stay, and of those who do, even fewer go exploring,” Clervie explains, but it still feels strange to see Fontaine so devoid of people.

Distances don’t make sense. They traverse thousands of kilometers within hours, yet the scenery passes by slowly, leisurely, almost as if they are simply taking a stroll in the orphanage’s back garden. They take their time, stopping to observe crabs scuttling along the shore, to disturb sleeping blubberbeasts and giggle as they flick their tails in lazy annoyance, to pick bulle fruit off trees, enjoying the sharp sweetness on their tongues.

Logically, they should not have gotten anywhere. The sun should have set with them still firmly under Mount Esus’ shadow, the ruins of the arena looming just out of sight. The night would come, and they would pitch a tent and lie together, staring up at the night sky and tracing the constellations.

Yet the scenery of Fontaine has passed by in a blur, day-long journeys condensing into a matter of minutes.

They walked along empty paths, creeping past the walls of the Court, the ruins of the Callas Line falling away as they approached Mount Esus.

Throughout the journey, Clervie has questions for everything, and Peruere answers in as much detail as she can, grateful for her habit of learning anything and everything to build rapport with targets.

Peruere tells her about the history of the aquabus, about the Spina di Rosula and its ill-fated leader. Clervie says she may have seen him before, a big, scary-looking blonde with an eyepatch, side by side with a beautiful blonde woman, staring out over the inland sea.

Peruere answers her questions about the city, about the operas and plays she’s seen, the music she’s enjoyed and the stories that touched her. She tells her of the different cafes she’s eaten at, the variations in cuisine brought by foreigners who’ve settled down in the city. She recalls barbecue nights with her children, smoke curling into the quiet night sky, some of them surprising her with handmade cakes or cookies that they’ve been secretly learning to make.

Clervie listens intently, asks questions incessantly, looking equal parts happy to know that Peruere was happy, but sad that she couldn’t be there to experience it with her.

They walk and talk for what must be an eternity, yet the sun doesn’t move from its place in the sky, bright but gentle.

Unable to ignore it for any longer, she stops.

“Hey Clervie?”

“Yeah?”

“Does it feel like we’re traveling way too fast to you?”

“Oh,” Clervie rubs the back of her head sheepishly, “I should’ve told you sooner - logic doesn’t count for anything here.”

“Logic… doesn’t count for anything?” she echoes, incredulous.

“I mean, we’re dead and all, y’know? We don’t get tired or hungry or old, the day is as long as we want it to be, and the night only ever comes if you want it to. The scenery is a projection of our memories - depending on who you’re with, the same place can look completely different.”

Peruere blinks silently, struggling to wrap her head around what she’s just been told.

“A projection?”

How would that work? Is this entire world, and all the people in it, but fictional beings created by her own mind? Or is this some sort of collective dreamscape, the solid shape of this world preserved by the memories of all the dead who linger here?

“Yeah,” Clervie shrugs, having clearly come to terms with this ages ago. “When I was by myself, those aquabus lines weren’t there. The orphanage isn’t in shambles, and the arena… the arena is still intact. But the moment you arrived, everything started to change.”

Peruere hesitates, confused.

“I’m… overriding what you see?”

“Well, I’m sort of letting you do it? Now that you’re here, I… don’t have any regrets left, I suppose? So my view is easy enough to override.”

“What happens if that wasn’t the case?”

“The scenery would just keep flickering back and forth between what we perceived as reality.”

“I see…”

Is that why people don’t seem to gather in the afterlife? Anyone with enough reason to want to stay behind would probably be carrying a sizable amount of trauma, clinging onto the quiet peace brought by death. They would not want their illusion to be challenged by the presence of too many others, to be reminded over and over again that while this world is beautiful, it isn’t real.

“Don’t think too much about it,” Clervie pouts, poking Peruere’s cheek with one finger. “We’ve been beaten around all our lives. Now that we’re dead, what’s wrong with enjoying an illusion?”

“I suppose that’s fair,” she admits, hesitant.

Peruere has never liked illusions. She knows how powerful and all-consuming they can be, how they can trick you into forgetting all about reality and the responsibilities and wounds you carry. But there is no reality left for her, not now, not when she’s taken her last breath and her body has hopefully been laid to rest in Fontaine, right next to where she buried Clervie.

When she moves on, she will no longer be herself. A clean slate, hopefully, a new life. So what is wrong with indulging a sweet dream while her consciousness still remains?

“There are so many things I never got to see,” Clervie snuggles up to her, “won’t you show them to me?”

How is she supposed to resist that?

With a fond sigh, she says, “You know that I could never say no to you.”

Clervie’s smile is like an arrow through the heart, taking her breath away. It should be difficult to walk like this, arm in arm and chests pressed tightly together, yet they miraculously manage to avoid stepping on each other’s feet as they forge on.

She looks out over the water, at the rise of the New Fontaine Research Institute in the distance. She remembers the days before it was built, when there was only the Central Laboratory further west, when the Fatui could sneak an entire convoy through the mountains without fear of running into researchers or their hassled assistants along the way.

Here, however, the place is like a ghost town. In the distance, they see a singular figure staring out over the sea, at some massive floating cubes of dark water that flicker in and out of existence as they approach. The figure turns, spots them, and disappears into the buildings.

The cubes disappear, leaving the scenery just as Peruere likes it.

“What was that?” Clervie hums, curious.

Peruere remembers the eventful few months in which poisoned water floated, a sword of Damocles, over Fontaine’s beating heart. She remembers personally investigating the circumstances, concerned for the future of her children. Was the prophecy not ominous enough, did Fontaine’s own children want to speed up their deaths before the Hydro Archon’s sins could wipe them from this earth?

“A mistake,” she replies vaguely, unsure just how much she should attempt to explain.

“It must’ve been a really bad one, for someone to still be trapped by it in death.”

“Trapped?” Peruere remembers the way Clervie phrased her explanation earlier, and maybe, just maybe, she thinks she might understand. “Is that what you meant by not having enough regrets to challenge my projection?”

“As expected of my Perrie, you’re so smart!” Her chest puffs out with pride. “This place is shaped by your strongest memories, be they happy ones or traumatic ones. That’s why we call it the afterlife, instead of something like heaven or hell or whatever. It’s… not a good place, but it’s not bad either.”

So not exactly purgatory, either, then. A prison of sorts, a cage of regret, capable of taking the form of a beautiful daydream or a twisted nightmare. A place that clearly wasn’t designed for long stays, a place that is more between than it is after life.

“Does it… is there any penalty for staying too long?”

Clervie taps her chin with a light hum. “I don’t think it’s possible to stay too long. Mister Rostam has been here the longest, and he says once your wishes are fulfilled, you won’t be able to stay even if you wanted to.”

“Does that mean,” Peruere swallows thickly, her tongue suddenly too dry and too large in her mouth. “Does that mean you’ll leave me once we see the aurora together?”

“My dearest Peruere,” gentle hands frame her face, warm against her soft cheeks. “I wish for so much more than that with you.”

There is so much longing in her eyes, warmth and grief and regret swirling together into a whirlpool that seeks to drag her down.

“I wish to laugh with you. To cry with you. To learn with you.” Her smile becomes pained, yearning. “To grow old with you.”

“Clervie…”

“I know that the last one will never come true. Not here. But up until then… I want to journey across the world you’ve known with you.”

How is she supposed to say no to that?

“Anything. I’ll give you anything you want.”

The night is gentle, calm and serene.

They set up camp along the shore, under the shadow of the new Fontaine Research Institute. The water cubes do not reappear in the sky, but the night stops just at the edge of the shore, flickering to morning where the deceased researcher must be. For them, the night will not come, the poisoned water will not disappear, and their sins will weigh heavy on their mind.

The temperature remains blissfully mild, like an early summer night. The powerful daylight in the distance does not seem to affect the visibility of the stars, which shine just as clearly in the sky as they do in her memories. The constellations distort slightly when she questions her recollection - does the Rapperia really entangle with the Rosa Multiflora like that, or has her impression been affected by the close relationship that their wielders bear? Is the Automaton truly that bright, were the Felis Alba and Felis Fuscus genuinely that far apart? Uncertain, the stars flicker in and out of place, bringing to mind the faces of the people they represent.

The sky is crowded in places, clear and distinct constellations of people she knows, people she fought alongside of, people she observed and studied. In others, the constellations are poorly defined, nothing but a scattering of stars thrown in by her brain to substitute for what she doesn’t know. They burn brightly even at the furthest corners of the night, as if impervious to the daylight of the researcher’s struggle.

Clervie is snuggled into her side, head resting warm against her shoulder. Her arms are wrapped tight around Peruere’s waist, contentment radiating from every inch of her.

“I’ve missed this,” she says, eyes closed, her entire body so relaxed that if Peruere were to move away, she would just collapse into the ground.

“I’ve missed it too.”

She reaches down to intertwine their fingers, smiling when Clervie gives her hand a tight squeeze in return. The sea breeze is comfortably cool, rustling through the grass and combing through their hair.

“Tell me about them,” Clervie suddenly says, eyes still closed.

“Hmm?”

“The people written in those stars,” she looks up, gesturing with her free hand to the expanse of the night. “They must be important to you, for you to remember them so clearly.”

Important? Well, of course her children are important to her. Only the Vision wielders have their fates woven into the sky, but Peruere remembers them all, the children who walked alongside her and fell for her cause, the children who rebelled against her and lost their lives, the children who have outlived her and now seek to forge their own paths.

She also remembers the well-known figures of the Court, kept alliances that would be beneficial to her cause and her children. She observed those who could pose a threat against them, keeping friend and foe alike close to her, aware that their allegiances could easily change with a snap of the Tsaritsa’s fingers. She kept an eye on those who would change the future of Fontaine, those who had the power to shape the world in which her children would live, either in the shadows or, when purified, out under the sun.

So she tells her about them.

About Lyney, the reluctant new King, with a whole host of new experiences that she knows will make him a better Father than she ever was. A young man with a kind heart so deep, he was probably the only child of the House of the Hearth to truly love every other child as his own sibling.

Unlike her, he had no confidence in his power, no ancient curse from which he could draw upon. He feared himself too weak to inherit the title, too weak to be the defender of the House, but that was precisely what made him deserving of it.

Peruere had to learn to love. In the aftermath of Clervie’s death, she had honed herself into a blade of vengeance, her heart hollowed out by grief, guilt and regret. Lyney, however, simply had to learn how to fight, and that… that was a far easier skill to hone.

“He might be the one to finally turn the House into a home,” she muses. “I wonder what that would look like.”

“I’m sure it’ll be beautiful,” Clervie hums. “Any King you choose will definitely be a good one.”

Peruere smiles. “You have too much faith in me.”

“I know you,” she retorts, “So I have just the right amount of faith in you.”

She really hopes that Clervie is right, that the crown she has placed upon Lyney’s head will not suffocate him. Sure, he did make his choice to stay that day, he did say that the thought of leaving had never crossed his mind, but the responsibility and weight of being the Knave, the servant King, is one that no child should be expected to understand. There was no way he knew just what he was accepting back then, and Peruere hopes that he will not come to regret it.

“He’s not a child anymore, is he?” Clervie asks, seemingly having read her mind. “It is his life to lead, his choices and mistakes to make.”

“But I had a hand in shaping the choices he could make, in shaping what he thought was a mistake, in shaping him.”

“A parent’s influence is not absolute. After all, look at you, Perrie. There is no shadow of Mother in you at all.”

A gentle hand is placed on her chest, over the heart that no longer beats there. Peruere closes her eyes, savoring its warmth.

“I suppose you do have a point.”

“So, who’s next?”

“His sister, naturally.”

Lynette, the child who resembles her the most. She sees in Lynette all the mistakes she has made, all the weaknesses that have come back to bite her, all the promises she failed to live up to. Lynette, however, will be different - Peruere did her best to ensure that, to give her more than she ever had.

Peruere knows that she isn’t perfect, that she alone is not enough to heal the trauma Lynette has experienced. Still, she did her best to provide the child security, to encourage independence, to give her enough breathing room to grow away from her twin without traumatizing them with the separation.

She would like to think that she didn’t do too badly.

While Lynette is far from a well-adjusted, ordinary child, she is functional, intelligent, and most importantly, she is happy. She has far too many cats to feed, magic shows with her brother to practice and prepare for, friends whom she can talk to, take to tea and lounge in sunbeams with. She’s grown up into a capable young woman, cunning and independent and powerful. She will be able to achieve anything she sets her mind to, Peruere believes, for she is so much stronger than anyone seems to give her credit for.

Hopefully, Lynette will walk a path dissimilar from Peruere’s own, a path not marked by loss and grief and painful regret, but by new friendships, new experiences and new triumphs.

She tells Clervie about Freminet, about how much she worries about him. She isn’t the right parent for him, can’t quite understand his softness, can’t really empathize with his sensitivities. He seems to experience the world more vividly than the other children, his emotions vibrant to the point of overwhelming.

Fortunately, he has skills and hobbies that will enable him to support himself should he need to. Experienced divers will always be in demand in Fontaine, and as the country marches forward in the realm of automation, skilled mechanics like him are increasingly valuable.

However, he will need friends. He need to expand his network beyond Lyney and Lynette, to find more trustworthy people he can fall back on should life take a turn for the worse. He should also find more people whose company he enjoys, for the twins will not always be available to him, and he is too sweet, too soft, too gentle a child for prolonged isolation.

But what if she is wrong, what if Freminet is capable of thriving by himself, a little island linked to the world by a single bridge? What if she had hurt him by encouraging him to talk to other people, pushing him out of his comfort zone before he was truly ready?

She wants to do right by him, the last of Crucabena’s children, one of the only members left to remember what that woman was truly like. She just… doesn’t really know if she’s done it right.

She talks about the children without constellations, those not special enough to be woven into the stars. About Filliol, about Nanteuil, about Horrer, the children she’d killed and set free into the world. She hopes that they are safe, happy, enjoying the blissful peace that they fought to deserve.

The names must mean nothing to Clervie, but still she listens. Her eyes are so warm, so affectionate, the hand on Peruere’s chest an anchor that stops her from drifting into her many worries.

“You call yourself heartless,” when she finally grows silent, Clervie speaks, her tone chiding, disapproving. “Yet you’ve just spent hours talking about your children, worrying about their futures and showing me just how much you love and care for them.”

Peruere flusters, her eyes training firmly on the brightest star of Felis Alba in a desperate attempt to avoid Clervie’s own.

“It’s… not like that…”

The words sound hollow to her ears, so they must ring even more in Clervie’s.

The hand on her chest trails up, brushing against the side of her neck and cupping her cheek. Slowly, her eyes are guided back down, her cheeks flushing crimson at the intimacy of it all.

“Your heart is beautiful, Peruere. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise - not even yourself.”

She can’t respond over the relentless throb of her heart in her throat.

Snezhnaya is a beautiful place.

Cruel, yes, but beautiful. The snow stretches endlessly into the distance, an undisturbed carpet of blinding white. It crunches beneath their feet like the real thing, but offers next to no resistance as they walk, an illusion through which they wade with ease.

The temperature is still comfortably cool, the snow textureless against their skin. It doesn’t soak through their shoes, doesn’t sink dramatically beneath the point of her heels, doesn’t bite at their skin with sharp, icy fangs. There is barely even any wind, the occasional breeze gentle and warm and smelling of the sea.

If Clervie has any complaints about the inauthentic experience, she does not voice it.

Peruere tries to focus on the cold, to remember the way the snow would soak her to the knees, the way her breath fogged up in front of her face and her ears and lips stung from the biting wind. The climate remains unchanging despite her efforts - perhaps this is her endless day, her cubes of poisoned water floating over the sea. The gentle warmth of an early Fontanian summer, the coolness of stone under her knees, the heat of blood pooling over her clothes.

She shivers.

Concerned, Clervie immediately presses against her, warm and real and deceptively lifelike.

“Are you cold?”

“No,” her breath still doesn’t fog. “Are you?”

“Not at all,” she says, giving the knee-deep snow an experimental kick.

It scatters without resistance, a deep furrow opening in the snow as if someone had swung a heated blade through it.

“It’s not supposed to do that, is it?”

“I guess my memories of snow aren’t traumatic enough to stick,” she mumbles dryly.

“Maybe something else is just too hard to forget,” Clervie says, and Peruere knows she knows.

“It’s—”

“If the next words to come out of your mouth are ‘not that bad’, I’m going to beat you.”

Peruere has the decency to look sheepish, her smile twisted wryly in one corner. She doesn’t lie, especially not to Clervie, so she chooses not to say anything instead. That doesn’t quite slide with Clervie, who headbutts her gently in the shoulder anyway.

“You’ve already told me that it hurt you. There’s no need to pretend now.”

She knows, but it is a struggle to be vulnerable, even with Clervie. Especially with Clervie, because Peruere’s the one who should be protecting her, who has to make up for years of failing to defend her, who has to assuage the bitter guilt of having killed her.

Being vulnerable and open once was difficult enough. To do it again and again, to be consistently open, is something that will take her a long time to adjust to.

“I’ll try,” she says, not wanting to promise something she cannot deliver.

Clervie shakes her head, fondly exasperated. “I suppose I can wait.”

The sky darkens slowly, unnaturally so. It feels just as slow as it was when she was in the back of that prison cart, staring out the bars of her tiny window at the changing landscape.

Back then, she’d desperately willed the time to slow, not wanting to see the light of the aurora without Clervie. Part of her childishly insisted on keeping her eyes closed, but she was too much of Crucabena’s little prince, too much of a well-raised assassin, to close her eyes while being transported to an unknown location.

In the end, the night was too long, the aurora surprisingly constant through it all. Sitting in the middle of her empty cell, she had tried to stare resolutely ahead of her, to ignore the lights that danced in from the window just behind her. Unfortunately, the colors reflected in the steel of the prison bars and the shackles around her ankles, forcing their way into her unwilling eyes.

She’d clenched her jaw and kept looking forward anyway. Her burned fingers itched faintly in the low temperature, the flow of her blood in her veins like steel wool being scrubbed over glass. She focused on that, desperately trying to block out the world, a stubborn child trying to cling to the only bit of control she had left.

A soft, distinctly unnatural breeze tickled her ear, curving along her cheek like a caress. Peruere sat upright, her eyes wide as the phantom touch guided her chin upward, tilting her face gently toward the window, where the most hauntingly beautiful sight awaited.

Green and blue and purple-pink danced in curved stripes across the sky, flickering like a multi-colored flame. It was so bright it outshone the stars, and in its rise and fall, she could see the curve of Clervie’s smile, the sparkle in her excited eyes, and her blood dark and sticky between her fingers.

It felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over her head while simultaneously grabbing her by the throat.

Her first aurora had been a suitably traumatizing experience. Surely her mind would be able to recreate it faithfully for her now, with Clervie finally by her side to see it.

Slowly, slowly, the sky fades to blue-black. There seems to be no one else in this corner of Snezhnaya, for the night consumes the sky entirely, from mountaintop to mountaintop. There are only a few clear constellations here - Monoceros Caeli is the brightest, almost childlike in its joyful twinkle. She sees the faint outlines of shapes she doesn’t know the names of, the fuzzy hints of fates she cannot quite remember.

They come to a stop at the edge of a large, placid lake, the calm surface reflecting the dark sky above. She doesn’t know where this place is, hasn’t really taken to exploring the mountain of Snezhnaya on foot, Harbinger or no. Her blood might be literal fire, but even she gets cold, and the tundra is far from her favored biome.

“It’s beautiful,” Clervie breathes, a little tremor running up her spine and shuddering lightly against Peruere’s side. “Is it supposed to be this quiet?”

“Well… usually there should be the sound of the wind?” Animals sometimes, maybe, but in the dark of the night, the predators should all be silently stalking their equally silent, terrified prey…

Clervie hums, the sound strikingly loud in the silence. The wind remains gentle, a caress against her cheek, trailing softly along her jaw.

The sky shimmers, flashes white. When it fades away, the aurora stretches across the sky, multiple stripes of colorful light dancing in the dark.

Clervie gasps.

The lights are infinitely more beautiful than Peruere remembers, perhaps because Clervie is finally by her side to witness them. The aurora flickers in the sky, reflected in the lake below, a tapestry of colors that stretches all around them.

With a laugh, Clervie reaches out her hand as if to touch them. Her other hand remains firmly wrapped around Peruere’s arm, keeping her close.

“It’s so much prettier than I imagined,” she whispers, as if afraid to break the magic with the sound of her voice.

“It is,” Peruere agrees, but she isn’t looking at the sky - of course she isn’t.

She’s seen the aurora more times than she can count by now, an esteemed Harbinger who has spent many a night in Snezhnaya. But what she hasn’t seen is Clervie standing under it, the light painting her skin in watery colors and dancing in the depths of her eyes.

She’s beautiful, she’s always been beautiful. The wonder and unadulterated joy that shines in her eyes is the air that fills Peruere’s lungs and the knife that twists sharply between her ribs.

“Clervie.”

An ocean of affection springs forth from that single word, unfathomably deep and endlessly dark. Clervie pries her eyes from the sky, another little gasp escaping her as she meets Peruere’s eyes.

She wonders what the aurora looks like reflected in red crosses, if it’s even half as beautiful as what it looks like in Clervie’s.

“Thank you for waiting, for letting me keep my promise.”

“I would’ve waited forever for you, Peruere.”

She takes both of Clervie’s hands in hers, feels them warm and solid beneath her palms. How many times has she dreamed of this moment, of the two of them under the rainbow-hued night sky, so close that their noses could almost touch?

There are so many things she’s thought of saying, from angry accusations to desperate pleas to grand declarations and impossible promises. How is she supposed to express the depth of her feelings in words, to let Clervie know just how deeply she had been missed, how ardently she has been loved?

You are my warmest joy and my greatest sorrow, the light in my eyes and the dark of my fears. You are my brightest hope and my deepest despair, the blood and the fire that flows through my veins.

That would be too poetic for Clervie to truly understand, wouldn’t it? Is there a simpler way to explain it?

Her happiest, most cherished moments are with Clervie, as is her greatest regret and heaviest guilt. In life, memories of her would always fill Peruere - no, Arlecchino - with fondness and warmth, but also a twisting pain akin to sinking a blade into your own chest and carving out your heart. Living up to Clervie’s expectations was the hope that had kept her going until her death, driving her to protect her children and grant them the freedom that Clervie had died to find. Yet, Clervie had also haunted her worst nightmares, running her through with invisible stakes at random moments and knocking the breath from her lungs.

No, that’s too long, nothing but passionate word vomit that would probably get intelligible as Peruere inevitably becomes all emotional and her voice starts trembling.

I love you. I probably always have, and I definitely always will.

Simple yet effective, but not quite enough. The word love has been thrown around so casually that it no longer feels as weighty as it used to, so she can’t count on it to deliver the depth that she needs it to.

So what should she say?

“Perrie?”

A gentle squeeze brings her back from her thoughts, Clervie’s eyes wide and worried.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just got a little… lost inside my head.”

“Mora for your thoughts?”

Peruere smiles.

“I just…” she swallows thickly, then bites the bullet. “I just didn’t know the right way to tell you just how much I love you.”

Clervie flushes, probably surprised by how direct she’s chosen to be.

“There is no right way,” she reassures, leaning just a little bit closer.

“But there is,” she insists, stubborn. “I don’t just love you. I…”

She makes a noise of frustration, her brain scrambling for words.

“I want to love you here and make all your wishes come true. I want to make you happy, and when everything is said and done, I want to move on with you. I want to find you in our next life and fall in love with you again. And when that comes to an end, I’ll find you in the next one and do it all over again.”

Clervie chokes out a sob, burying her face in Peruere’s neck. She stiffens, concerned that she has said something wrong, that her word babble hasn’t expressed her feelings the right way and has somehow hurt her beloved.

“Did I say something wrong…?”

“You didn’t,” Clervie reassures, her voice thick with tears. “I love you too, Peruere. And I’ll love you again, in every life that you’ll have me.”

“Then we’ll be together forever.”

It is Clervie who kisses her first, their noses bumping awkwardly. It is Peruere who adjusts the angle to deepen it, pressing them so closely together that she can hardly breathe.

The kiss lasts both too long and too short.

Peruere’s lungs are burning, her lips tingling with leftover warmth. Clervie’s pupils are blown wide, her breathing unsteady as she wets her lips with her tongue.

Peruere kisses her again.

A gentle hand tangles in her hair, and she lowers both of hers to encircle Clervie’s waist.

Bathed in the gentle light of the aurora, they begin their first of what will surely be countless love stories.